_Edith._ Now for a Fathers murther, and thy ruine, All chastity shall suffer if he raign; Thou blessed soul, look down, and steel thy Daughter, Look on the sacrifice she comes to send thee, And through the bloudy clouds behold my piety, Take from my cold heart fear, from my sex pity, And as I wipe these tears off, shed for thee, So all remembrance may I lose of mercy; Give me a womans anger bent to bloud, The wildness of the winds to drown his prayers, Storm-like may my destruction fall upon him, My rage like roving billows as they rise, Pour'd on his soul to sink it, give me flattery, (For yet my constant soul ne'r knew dissembling) Flattery the food of Fools, that I may rock him And lull him in the Down of his desires; That in the height of all his hopes and wishes, His Heaven forgot, and all his lusts upon him, My hand, like thunder from a cloud, may seize him. I hear him come, go boy, and entertain him. _Enter Rollo._ SONG. _Take, Oh take those lips away_ _That so sweetly were forsworn,_ _And those eyes, like break of day,_ _Lights that do mislead the Morn,_ _But my kisses bring again,_ _Seals of love, though seal'd in vain._ _Hide, Oh hide those hills of Snow,_ _Which thy frozen blossome bears,_ _On whose tops the Pinks that grow_ _Are of those that_ April _wears,_ _But first set my poor heart free,_ _Bound in those Ivy chains by thee._ _Rol._ What bright star, taking beauties form upon her, In all the happy lustre of Heavens glory, Has drop'd down from the Skye to comfort me? Wonder of nature, let it not prophane thee My rude hand touch thy beauty, nor this kiss, The gentle sacrifice of love and service, Be offer'd to the honour of thy sweetness. _Edi._ My gracious Lord, no deity dwells here, Nor nothing of that vertue, but obedience, The servant to your will affects no flattery. _Rol._ Can it be flattery to swear those eyes Are loves eternal lamps he fires all hearts with? That tongue the smart string to his bow? those sighs The deadly shafts he sends into our souls? Oh, look upon me with thy spring of beauty. _Edi._ Your grace is full of game. _Rol._ By Heaven, my _Edith_, Thy Mother fed on Roses when she bred thee. _Ed._ And thine on brambles that have prick'd her heart out. _Rol._ The sweetness of the Arabian wind still blowing Upon the treasures of perfumes and spices, In all their pride and pleasures call thee Mistris. _Edi._ Wil't please you sit Sir? _Rol._ So you please sit by me. Fair gentle maid, there is no speaking to thee, The excellency that appears upon thee Tyes up my tongue: pray speak to me. _Edi._ Of what Sir?